


make me feel like i am human

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sex, Assassins & Hitmen, Asshole Stiles, BAMF Stiles, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Human Derek Hale, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Post-Season/Series 04 AU, Recovering Stiles Stilinski, Rough Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2208279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re getting out,” Braeden tells him, hip cocked arrogantly, one hand wrapped around the neck of a shotgun and the other low on Derek Hale’s back. A grounding touch. Anchoring, even.</p><p>“That’s nice,” Stiles responds blankly, eyes fixed to the red on his hands. The red that won’t wash out, no matter how hard he tries. “Have a nice life.”</p><p>“Come with us,” Derek says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make me feel like i am human

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darthvair65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthvair65/gifts).



> So, at some point when me and Jen were geeking out about how amazing Braeden and Derek could be together, one of us mentioned how awesome it would be if the two of them kind of took Stiles in. Because it would be awesome. Braeden and Stiles would be a fierce fucking team once he was trained and Derek would be there to kind of balance out their crazy and either way, she offered me cookies to write this OT3, and her cookies are pretty fucking awesome. I wish that I'd been able to go more into detail on how the three interact together After, but I guess that's what sequels are for, right?

“We’re getting out,” Braeden tells him, hip cocked arrogantly, one hand wrapped around the neck of a shotgun and the other low on Derek Hale’s back. A grounding touch. Anchoring, even.  
  
“That’s nice,” Stiles responds blankly, eyes fixed to the red on his hands. The red that won’t wash out, no matter how hard he tries. “Have a nice life.”  
  
Stiles only blinks when Braeden crouches down beside him, the hand that was touching Derek a moment ago reaching for him — wrapping around _his_ hands and lowering them, carefully, until they’re out of sight. Seeing them again would be as simple as looking down, he knows, but her eyes are almost warm, darker than Malia’s by a shade or two, but just as perceptive. He likes looking at them. They’re a better sight than the blood.  
  
He must make a sound, because her hand tightens around his, using the hold to pull him into her. It’s a pretty shitty hug. Shittier even when Stiles catches sight of Derek over her shoulder, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on them. “Didn’t think you were the hugging type,” Stiles tries to say, voice creaking alarmingly, like he’s a seventy year old chain-smoker.  
  
She snorts. “I’m not. This is a one time deal, little dude. Derek can fill in the next time you need one.”  
  
Stiles blinks again, slowly, and notices the way that Derek’s eyebrows raise, like he wants to protest. He doesn’t, in the end, and Stiles doesn’t know if that’s because he honestly doesn’t mind the idea of hugging Stiles at a later date or if it’s because he’s so damned pussy-whipped that he’s not gonna say anything. “Derek’s not really the hugging type either,” he says eventually, voice trembling. “Thought you were getting out, anyway. Won’t really be able to hug me if you two are halfway across the country.”  
  
Stiles isn't really looking, because he’s caught sight of his hands again, hanging limply at his sides, but he thinks that they might exchange a look over his head. He can see the quick hint of movement in his peripherals.  
  
“We are,” Braeden says, releasing him and setting the shotgun down so she can grip him by the shoulders and guide him back, until he’s looking at her again.   
  
Stiles tilts his head at her, confused. “Then why—”  
  
“Come with us,” Derek says. He blinks, like he’s surprised himself by speaking up. Knowing him, he probably did. Stiles thinks that he might be steeling himself for whatever he's going to say next, because he hesitates again, taking a step or two closer, until he's just shy of hovering. His face is wide-eyed and imploring, hands spread wide like he's trying to convince Stiles that he's not a threat, that whatever he's about to say, he's sorry for having to say it. Even with that warning, it's not enough to prepare Stiles for what comes out of his mouth. “It’s not— there’s nothing left for you here. This town will kill you too if you let it, so, come with us.”  
  
It’s a bit like getting a steering wheel to the face all over again — like whatever random part of his jeep Erica had dug out of his car smashing across his skull. It’s like getting kicked by Gerard, over and over again, until he’s dry-heaving in a dingy old basement.   
  
It’s like watching Scott die. Like watching Lydia get shredded by Kate fucking Argent.   
  
It’s like watching his dad—

Like feeling Malia bleed—  
  
“I couldn’t save them,” Stiles says, his voice shattered. His hands are shaking and his vision is swimming, but he’s so far beyond panic attacks right now that it’s not even funny. His breathing hitches, the rhythm changing up on him, like that god forsaken deadpool, right about everything except for Derek fucking Hale still being alive. “I couldn’t— I killed Peter, and it wasn’t enough, it was too late, they—”  
  
“Shh,” Braeden soothes, nails scratching through his hair. “Don’t make me get Derek to come over here and hug you. I wasn’t kidding about that being a one time deal.”  
  
Stiles snorts, choking on a laugh. It’s not funny. Nothing will ever be funny again, but even now, this is who he is. He’s Stiles Stilinski, dumbass sheriff’s kid who copes with all the nasty shit life throws at him by laughing in its face and being an even nastier little shit right back.  
  
Somewhere along the way, the laugh gives way to a sob, and then Derek _is_ there, right next to Braeden, arms wrapping tight around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him in until his face is mashed up against Derek’s neck. It’s a better hug than Braeden’s. The Hales were probably all good huggers, before they died miserably, like everyone else in this fucking town.  
  
“Come with us,” Derek whispers again, arms tightening around him as Stiles shakes and shakes, probably smearing tears and snot all over Derek’s neck. Two years ago, Derek probably would have slammed his head into another steering wheel for even thinking about crying all over him. Two years ago, Stiles probably would have let him.  
  
But it's not two years ago. It's _now_ and everyone that Stiles loves is dead, so he just nods frantically, choking back another sob.  
  
.  
  
“I’m not an emissary—”  
  
“Neither am I,” Stiles cuts in, face twisting viciously. “Kinda hard to be one without a werewolf or two.”  
  
Ahead of them, Derek flinches, full-body like Stiles turned his gun on him and fired.  
  
Braeden narrows her eyes at him and repeats, “I’m not an emissary or a druid, but I can teach you some—”  
  
Stiles cuts her off again, ignoring how she glares at him like she wants to take a shotgun to his face. “I don’t want that. Maybe later— maybe if we survive a couple years, but for now, this is enough.”  
  
 _I don’t want that. Not without Scott._  
  
Stiles doesn’t tell them that. He keeps his mouth shut and fires at the paper target until he hits it in the head. They probably hear it loud and clear anyway.  
  
.  
  
It takes them four months before they end up with a job that takes them out of the country.  
  
It’s not what they were aiming for. Getting out of the country wasn’t their end game and it isn't going to be indefinite, it's just a job. It'll probably only last two or three weeks. But Stiles was fine with driving around the states, soaking in all that Braeden and Derek had to teach him and spending nights in crappy hotels or huddled in the back of the SUV as Derek and Braeden bickered over GPS directions in the front seat.  
  
He was fine living on a diet of junk food. He was fine with taking a wet paper towel to his body in gas station bathrooms when they were too busy or too broke to stop for a hotel. He was even fine with coming back from a food run to the smell of sex in whatever hotel room they were frequenting for the night.  
  
“You know you guys can tell me to sleep in the car whenever you want to get your freak on, right?” he’d said one night, looking between them. Derek was still flushed, his shirt on inside out, a smear of red across his chest and cheekbones. Braeden, for the most part, was perfectly put together, only her mussed hair giving her away.  
  
“We’re not going to kick you to the car so we can get laid,” Braeden had told him. She’d faltered after, like she was going to say something else, before Derek silenced her with a swift glare.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles had said, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”  
  
The point is, he’s fine with their life. The constant road trips aren’t as glamorous as they make it look on television. It’s exhausting. He doesn’t get enough sleep and he never feels clean anymore; never feels full. But he gets damn good with a gun and even better with knives. He learns how to make it look like an accident and how to leave a message. So he's okay with it. It keeps his mind off of the festering grief growing like a fungus in his heart.  
  
Braeden mostly focuses on teaching him offense and defense, says that she doesn’t need to teach him how to find things for people or how to solve others troubles, because he already knew all that. What he doesn’t know is how to kill someone in twelve seconds or less, or how to get out of a chokehold.  
  
“Making me into the perfect little assassin,” he croons at her, knife pressed to her belly.  
  
“You’re picking this up faster than Derek did,” she tells him, flashing him a smile that shows teeth. Then, a couple minutes later, once she’s successfully disarmed him, “It hasn’t been very hard. Making you into this.”  
  
If he were someone else, if Scott were still alive to be his moral compass, he probably would have been offended. To most people, being told that you’re the perfect moldable clay for the makings of a killer probably wouldn’t have been a compliment. But Braeden’s eyes are bright with amusement, and he knows that coming from her, this is a compliment.  
  
“I know,” he shrugs, and gets her onto her back.  
  
Derek finds them like that a couple hours later, shuffling back into their little practice warehouse of the week with a bag of food in his hands. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Braeden perched on his hips, a linoleum knife hovering over his jugular, and offers them the bag.  
  
“We’ve got a job in Germany,” Braeden says, as Stiles is licking mustard from his lips. She goes to her duffel bag and digs through it until she finds what she wants, tossing a couple objects into both his and Derek’s laps. “Passports and IDs are in there. We leave on Friday.”  
  
Derek frowns at her, but Stiles just nods amiably. “What’s the job?”  
  
“Local witch causing trouble, brewing up something big. Pretty simple. We take her out, we collect. Done and done.”  
  
Derek’s still frowning. “Do you think he’s ready for that?”   
  
Braeden snorts, dropping her burger beside her. “Stiles is more than ready for this. You on the other hand…”  
  
The frown turns into a full-blown glower. It reminds Stiles of simpler times, when Derek was the serial killer who murdered his sister and not… whatever he is now. Zen master, most of the time. Too good for this line of work. Too good for both of them, probably.   
  
“I’m not worried about your ability to take her out,” Braeden says, holding up a hand to halt the protest before it can form. “I’m worried that you’ll let your emotions get to you.”  
  
“I’m _not_ a _hunter_ ,” Derek snarls, lip curling. Stiles goes still, head coming up to stare between them.   
  
“No,” Braeden says quietly. “You’re not. Which is why I’m giving you the option to sit this one out, let me and Stiles handle it.”  
  
“What’s the witch done?” Derek barks, getting abruptly to his feet. “Because I didn’t sign up for murdering innocent people.”  
  
Braeden stays seated, foot brushing against his. Even with Derek towering above both of them, she’s calm and in control.   
  
“She’s killed fourteen people,” Braeden says frostily. “But Derek, I’m not going to lie to you. Sometimes, I will take jobs that require me to kill innocent people. It’s what I do. I’m not an Argent or a werewolf hunter, but Derek, I kill people. I told Scott once, and I’ll say it to you, now. I would kill _you_ if the money was good.”  
  
Stiles blinks at the way her throat bobs when she swallows. “Lie.”  
  
Braeden twitches, the heel of her boot shifting so that it isn’t touching his knee anymore. “What?”  
  
“You’re lying,” Stiles says, taking another bite of his sandwich. It’s cold now, but he chews through it mindlessly and swallows. “Just then, you lied. You wouldn’t kill him when Derek was worth fifteen mil. You wouldn’t kill Scott when he was worth twenty-five. _Ergo_ , you wouldn’t kill him.” Stiles flashes her a grin, half-chewed food still clinging to his teeth and tongue. “You know what I think?”  
  
Braeden shifts uneasily, glancing up at Derek, who’s watching Stiles like a hawk. “I'm not entirely sure that I _want_ to, but sure. Go ahead and tell me.”  
  
Stiles tucks his feet back under him, shifting himself carefully, so that he can lean towards her and keep Derek in his line of sight as well. “I think, that this? This whole tough girl act? It’s an act. A very, very good one, don't get me wrong. Well done, you're a better actress than I am half the time, but you can't fake a faker. It’s all an act. Sure, you kill for money, but I’ll bet you almost anything that you try to take the jobs that’ll save someone’s life. That you only take the bad jobs when you’re really hurting and that even then, you fight it.”  
  
They’re both blinking at him, eyes wide. Stiles could probably read them better if he gave himself the time to analyze them properly, but his hands are shaking again, and he doesn’t want to stop long enough to think about what he’s saying.   
  
“Derek, here, is your typical bleeding heart. He hides it under his gruff exterior, but you can bet your fucking ass that if he had a choice in the matter, he’d be saving kittens from trees and helping little old ladies cross the street.” He takes a breath and swallows. “You, on the other hand, had a shitty childhood. Watched too many good people get hurt and pretended to be a cold ass bitch just so you could get shit done. You’re probably a hero type, deep at heart. Only feel good about yourself when the bad guys get dead and the good guys don’t. That’s why you took me with you when you left Beacon Hills.”  
  
“I didn’t—”  
  
Stiles holds up a hand. “Now, you can say that it was all Derek’s idea. That he insisted on taking me with the two of you, and hell, that might have even been true, but if it was, it’s because you planted the idea there. Poor little Stiles Stilinski, everyone he loves is dead and _you failed_. The bad guys got dead, but the good guys did too, so why not try to save the last one standing? Why not spirit him away so he doesn’t blow his brains out with his dad’s gun? Why not—”  
  
“ _Enough_.”  
  
It’s said quietly, but there’s enough force behind it to startle Stiles out of his rant, words faltering on his tongue. Derek’s crossed the room to stand in front of him while he was distracted and he's drawn himself up to his full height, teeth bared and body tense. He looks every inch the werewolf he used to be. Every inch, except for his eyes.  
  
Stiles unfreezes a moment later and scoffs, fluttering his eyelashes just to be an asshole. “Can’t alpha me into being quiet, douche nozzle. Can’t even intimidate me with your wolfy powers, because _you don’t have any_ —”  
  
“Stiles!”  
  
He crossed the line somewhere. Scratch that, he knows exactly where he crossed the damn line. They don’t bring it up. It’s like fight club in this bitch. You don’t talk about the fact that Derek’s not a werewolf anymore. You don’t. He broke the first and second rule of this fucking road trip and probably pissed Braeden off to boot.  
  
He gets to his feet jerkily, brushing the crumbs from his lap as he goes. Derek is close, just a foot or so out of Stiles’ personal bubble, and for a second, Stiles just stares blankly at him. He’s taller than Derek now. Just by a couple inches, and he _has been_ for a while, but he didn’t see Derek much back in Beacon Hills before the shit showdown with Peter and Kate, so it’s easy to forget that he’s breakable now. That if it came down to it, _Stiles_ might be the one to win a fight.  
  
“I’m going for a walk,” he says stiffly, tearing his eyes away from Derek. He doesn’t even look at Braeden. “Feel free to fuck or whatever you do when I’m gone, but don’t fucking wait up.”  
  
“Stiles!” he hears Braeden call after him, but he doesn’t hesitate, just yanks the door open and slams it shut behind him.  
  
.  
  
Stiles fucks some girl at a bar a couple blocks away from their little hidey hole, gets in with the fake ID that Braeden scored him a week and a half ago. It’s not the same one that he’ll be using in Germany and neither is the credit card he pays for his beers with, but it’s real enough to make the bartender think he’s legal.  
  
He goes back to her apartment and fucks her with the mindless aggression of someone pissed at the entire world. He doesn’t think of Malia. Doesn’t compare the size of their tits or the way their pussies spread around his cock. He fucks her hard and fast, mindless, knowing that there will be bruises in the shape of her heels against the small of his back come morning.  
  
When he gets back to the warehouse the next morning, they’ll smell her on him. Derek doesn’t need to be a werewolf for this, doesn’t need to have super senses to smell the sweat and come on his skin.  
  
He tells himself that he isn’t doing this for them. That he isn’t trying to get back at them or something stupid like that. What would fucking some random girl in some random town prove? What does it matter? Derek and Braeden are fucking. Stiles is a third wheel again and it shouldn’t bother him — _doesn’t_ bother him — except for how sometimes, when they’re obviously flushed from a recent orgasm and Stiles can't help but _want_ , it _does_.  
  
.  
  
Derek goes with them. They land in Berlin and take a car to Nuremberg, setting up shop in a quaint little hotel that doesn’t charge an arm and leg.   
  
Braeden was right. It is an easy job. The witch may have killed fourteen people and sure, she gets the drop on them a little, but Stiles is the one who takes her out while Braeden and Derek are busy getting pinned to a wall by The Force. It isn’t how they planned it, but Braeden had agreed that it was a good idea for Stiles to stay back, just in case, and it had worked out in their favor when Stiles crept up behind her and split her ear to ear.  
  
“You did good,” Braeden tells him later that night.  
  
Stiles looks at her and thinks about how the witch’s blood felt on his skin, how he hadn’t felt the immediate urge to scrub it off. He’d wiped it off and thrown a coat on over the blood on his shirt, but he didn’t shower for a good three hours, until Braeden had glared at him and shoved him bodily into the bathroom.  
  
 _I could get addicted to this_ , he thinks. One vice replacing another.  
  
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did, didn’t I?”  
  
.  
  
Three more jobs before they find one that Derek refuses.   
  
“Come on, man,” Stiles coaxes, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. The leaves are starting to go, the greens fading into oranges and yellows, some already gone. It’s chillier, up here in the mountains, and he doesn’t like it much. Beacon Hills was pretty far north, but it was a different kind of cold, with wind that didn’t cut into your bones.  
  
“I said no,” Derek growls, shifting in the passenger seat.   
  
In the back, Braeden cracks her eyes open and glowers at them both until they fall silent.   
  
The job isn’t anything heartless, like killing children or expectant mothers. The mark isn’t even _innocent_ , but it’s straddling that dubious line where you're not sure whether it falls into right or wrong. He isn’t a good guy, but he’s not really bad either, and that’s where Derek’s having his hangups.  
  
“Sometimes I think that Scott rubbed off on you too much,” Stiles whispers once Braeden’s fallen back into an uneasy sleep.  
  
Derek doesn’t even look at him. “Sometimes I think that he didn’t rub off _enough_ on you.”  
  
.  
  
It’s a normal fucking day. The sky is cloudy with a chance of sun, the leaves are almost fully gone, and they’re in fucking Maine so Braeden can have a chat with some pack that needs her help. Neither of them are allowed to go; Derek because they can’t chance someone recognizing him as a Hale and Stiles because Braeden’s worried that someone might recognize him from his stint as the _true alpha_ ’s second.  
  
It’s fucking stupid, that’s what it is. He’s bored, holed up with Derek in some kitschy Bed and Breakfast place, and he can’t seem to make his brain shut up.  
  
It’s times like these that he misses his adderall. Being off of it is damn good for his reflexes, better for when he actually does need his mind going every which way, but these quiet moments make him wish that he hadn’t been so hasty when Braeden asked if he wanted to go off of it.  
  
He doesn’t even know how the argument started, just that one second he and Derek were arguing about something stupid like the remote and the next they were in each other’s faces.  
  
There’s an angry calm simmering in his veins. Scott used to tell him that it was that type of anger that made him afraid of Stiles sometimes, how he could be so fucking calm even while verbally tearing into someone. Now that Stiles is capable of _actually_ tearing into them, it’s probably even worse.  
  
“You’re getting too cocky,” Derek is yelling, fist clenched in the fabric of Stiles' t-shirt. It’s familiar ground, him having Stiles backed up against a wall, but it’s different now. The playing field has been evened, because now Stiles knows how to get out, knows exactly what he needs to do to get Derek to let go of him. He's just having trouble deciding how much he wants to hurt Derek to do it. “You think you’re invincible—”  
  
Stiles scoffs. “This from the guy who’s thrown himself head first into danger more times than I can count?”  
  
Derek’s eyes flash, lip curling in a snarl that isn’t half as frightening without the fangs. “You’re going to get someone killed!”  
  
Stiles throws his head back and laughs. He laughs long and hard, until there are tears in the corners of his eyes, and _shoves_ at Derek, something inside of him snapping. He feels untethered — unmoored and hateful — and he wants so bad to make someone _hurt_.  
  
“Newsflash Derek,” he hisses, shoving at Derek again, until he stumbles backwards. “I _already did_.”  
  
Derek flinches, but Stiles presses on, hands coming up to get a hold of Derek’s stupid fucking shirt, pushing him back until he’s the one stumbling up against a wall, head knocking up against the plaster with a painful sounding thump.   
  
“We’re more alike than you think, _Der-bear_ ,” he growls, baring his teeth. “Both got our families killed, both got our hands wet with the blood of our first fucking loves. Tell me, did Paige scream too? Did she cry when you got your claws into her? Malia did. She fucking cried and screamed, but it was a mercy killing, right? She wanted it to stop— She _asked_ me to make it stop, so I fucking did. Do you look at your hands and still see her blood? Do you—”  
  
The punch explodes out of nowhere, a starburst of pain behind his eyelids. Stiles blinks until his vision stops going sideways and sees Derek staring at him, eyes round and horrified. An apology is coming, he thinks. Derek will apologize and hate himself and be such a fucking martyr about it. Stiles doesn’t want that, so he grins wide and licks the blood from his lips.  
  
He hits back. Throws a better punch, and when Derek still looks like he’s going to apologize, Stiles hits him again, harder.  
  
He doesn’t know where the kiss comes from. It blindsides him as much as the punch, as much as this entire argument, but it’s all teeth, barely even a kiss. It’s more like the moment after the gunfire stops than fireworks and unicorns or whatever, so Stiles gives as good as he gets, and kisses back.  
  
Somewhere along the way, kissing turns into bearing Derek down onto the floor and pushing his jeans down his hips, leaning in so he can take Derek’s cock into his mouth. It’s abrupt and completely fucking stupid of him, but he can't think. He's angry, so fucking angry, and now he's horny too, so it's not like it's much of a hardship to mouth around the head first and then diving straight in.

It's sloppy and wet, no finesse whatsoever, just Stiles choking himself on Derek’s dick, sucking until there are tears in his eyes and spit drooling down his chin. Stiles waits until Derek gets a hand into his hair, makes him yank him around by his too fucking long hair and fuck his mouth until Derek comes. Then, because he can, Stiles pulls back, climbs into Derek’s lap, and furiously jerks himself off.   
  
He doesn’t let Derek touch him, pins him down with one hand and jerks himself off with the other, keeping himself just out of reach, and when he comes, he does it all over Derek’s stupid fucking face.  
  
Stiles rolls off afterwards, still furious, and makes to go get them some towels before Derek stops him with a hand around his ankle.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Derek tells him with his stupidly honest eyes and his earnest face, come still in his eyelashes.  
  
“I didn’t want you to apologize ten minutes ago and I sure as fuck don’t want you to now,” Stiles hisses and yanks himself out of Derek’s hold.   
  
He hadn’t planned on taking a shower, but he does anyway. It feels good, the water warm and wonderful on the already forming bruises, and does his job for him, the anger seeping out of him as quickly as it came.  
  
When he gets out, Derek is starfished across the bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s lost his clothes, probably not thinking that they were necessary around a dude who just had Derek's dick stuffed down his throat. Or maybe it’s just a Derek thing, carrying over from when he was a werewolf. He remembers Malia saying something about it once, how they felt more comfortable in their skin than they did in clothes.  
  
Stiles clears his throat, throwing himself down onto the bed next to Derek and kicking at his limbs until he’s got enough room to spread out. He doesn’t really snuggle, but there’s some definite overlapping of limbs once they’re comfortable.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, nuzzling his nose against Derek’s throat.  
  
Derek raises an eyebrow at him, then smirks, slow and filthy, and parrots back, “I didn’t want you to apologize ten minutes ago and I sure as fuck don’t want you to now.”  
  
Stiles scowls at him and punches at his shoulder. “Asshole.”  
  
“Takes one to know one,” Derek snorts and yanks him closer.  
  
.  
  
Braeden walks in on them the next morning to the sight of Stiles red-faced and sitting on Derek’s dick, cursing up a storm. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow at them and sighs, kicking off her shoes.  
  
“About time,” she grumbles, sliding onto the bed next to them. Stiles bites his lip when one of her fingers darts between them, tracing slowly around the rim of his hole, stretched wide around Derek’s dick. “I thought that I’d have to do something drastic if you two kept it up.”  
  
“Kept what up?” Stiles gasps, hips twitching when Derek drives up into him, impatient.   
  
She smirks at him, sliding her finger in next to Derek's cock. “Denial aint just a river in Egypt, you know.”  
  
“I think I’ve made a mistake,” Derek gasps.  
  
Stiles raises an eyebrow and meets Braeden’s eyes over his shoulder. She smirks back.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, leaning in to Braeden’s touch, a hand curling around her wrist to draw her even closer. “That is a definite possibility, dude.”  
  



End file.
